


Already; Almost

by fandammit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:16:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandammit/pseuds/fandammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Miller knows that it’s absolutely, completely, and without a doubt none of his business to say anything.</p>
<p>But -</p>
<p>He also knows that this is close to the sixth time he’s walked into a room occupied by the chancellor and the head of the guard and felt like he’s interrupted something private and intimate.</p>
<p>Something that looks very much like affection. Adoration. Maybe even love.</p>
<p>That’s certainly not his place to say.<br/>-------<br/>Four times people thought Kane and Abby were already kissing and one time they actually almost did. Written a little bit after "Stealing Fire" aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Already; Almost

_Already_

Raven rounds the corner and nearly falls to the floor as her leg unexpectedly buckles underneath her. She sighs and leans against the wall; knows that she’s probably being overly dramatic but - if anyone asked her, she’d probably say that her life is kind of shit right now, all things considered.

She takes a moment to get her bearings back and straightens out once again, decides to turn left instead of right on her way to the cafeteria even though it’s a longer route and therefore ten times more painful on her leg. There’s a chance that she’ll run into Wick if she takes the shorter route and all things considered, having to deal with the added ache in her leg is preferable to seeing the sad, lost look in his eyes one more time.

All thoughts of Wick disappear when she sees Abby emerging from her room, looking more rested than she has in weeks.

She grins and calls out Abby’s name.

Abby turns and smiles at her, patiently waits for her to catch up before continuing onto the cafeteria.

“So, I see that Kane made sure you got good night’s rest last night.”

She grins as a muscle twitches in Abby’s cheek; knows that the phrase sounds vaguely inappropriate because that’s exactly how she intends it to sound.

She swallows back the grin but can’t quite keep the teasing glee from her voice as she continues.

“I saw you sleeping in that back booth in the cafeteria and sent Kane over to make sure you actually slept in your bed.”

Abby glances at her with a raised brow.

“You know you could’ve just woken me up.”

[“And interrupt the nightly routine of Kane dragging your ass to bed and giving you a good night kiss? I wouldn’t dream of it.”](http://fandammit.tumblr.com/post/137852426370/sleep-patterns-45)

Abby stops abruptly in the middle of the hallways and holds her hands up in front of her.

“That’s not - Raven. You know that’s not - I mean. That isn’t - between Marcus and I - that’s not what’s going on. He just tries to make sure I don’t work myself into exhaustion.”

She looks so flabbergasted and awkward that Raven can’t help but throw back her head and laugh, loudly and without concern. It feels good. And even though the look on Abby’s face is still half caught in impatience and embarrassment, she smiles back at Raven, genuine and warm.

Raven lets out one last chuckle.

“Whatever you say, Abby.”

She leaves a half spluttering Abby in the doorway of the cafeteria and makes her way to Octavia and Miller in the corner, grinning the entire way over.

Not even 9 a.m. _and_ she’s managed to make Abby blush and fumble her words. Maybe life isn’t all that bad, after all.

* * *

Jackson sighs when Abby walks into medical but he can’t say that he’s actually the least bit surprised to see her.

“Abby, I thought we agreed that you’d take the next two days off.” He glances at the clock to her right. “It hasn’t even been a full day yet.”

“I know, Jackson. I’m not here to work - I’m just grabbing some antiviral and a few cooling packs.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“That sounds a lot like you’re working.” A flash of worry blooms in his chest. “Wait - are you feeling alright?”

She smiles at him reassuringly.

“I’m fine. Marcus is sick. I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t suffer through this longer than he has to.”  

A look spreads across his face that he can’t quite help and, judging from the look on Abby’s face, one that she can’t quite discern. (If forced to describe it, someone would probably say it’s somewhere between smug and discerning.)

He bites his lip in an attempt to keep from smiling and just nods at her before turning around to check on a patient. He feels her stare bore into the lines of his back a second longer before gathering up her supplies. Just as she’s about to head out the door, he turns and calls her name. His arms are crossed in front of him and he knows that there’s an unmistakably amused look on his face. He clears his throat in a vain attempt to keep from laughing.

“Just try and make sure you don’t get sick too, ok?”

Abby crinkles her forehead in confusion.

“I managed not to get sick during the worst of this epidemic. I’m not going to get sick when it’s just Marcus I’m taking care of.”

He knits his lips together and clears his throat again before fixing her with what he knows is an overly exaggerated look of guilelessness.

“If you say so, Abby.”

* * *

If Abby’s to be believed - and Octavia has no actual reason to think otherwise - then she only has two more days in medical before she is finally, _finally_ cleared to leave.

This is the thought she holds onto as she lays in bed and reads the copy of _The Odyssey_ that Kane deposited at her bedside a few days ago. She’s halfway through Odysseus’s battle with the cyclops when she hears the hum of low voices by Abby’s desk, looks up to see Kane with a bunch of small red flowers in his hand.

A slow grin makes its way onto her face as she sets the book down on the corner of the nightstand next to her desk. The infirmary is deserted except for her - and she’s been such a fixture in here lately that she doubts Kane or Abby can be bothered to remember that she exists right now.

From the way they’re looking at each other, she wonders if they remember that anyone else but them exists in this moment.

She watches as Kane hands Abby the flowers, his expression casual but the lines of his posture rigid, the ticking of the hand at his side a dead giveaway to what she assumes is a sense of nervousness. Abby glances down at the flowers before tilting her head and smiling softly up at Kane. She reaches up and lays her hand gently on Kane’s cheek and -

BANG.

All three of them jump at the sound of Octavia’s book falling from its precarious perch on her nightstand. She curses inwardly at the intrusion, bends down from the bed to grab it, and is suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of dizziness that has her breathless for a moment.

When she finally rights herself and has the book back on the nightstand, Abby has her back turned to her and Kane is headed her direction, a look of concern on his face.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

She breaths in deeply and gives him a smile that she hopes looks nonchalant.

“I’ll feel a whole hell of a let better when I can finally get out of here.”

He hums a noise in agreement and looks down at the copy of _The Odyssey_ and smiles.

She studies him for a moment before she clears her throat and waits for him to meet her eyes.

“Hey, just so you know - Abby’s favorite color is yellow.”

He tilts his head at her, slightly confused.

“Ok.”

She looks at him directly, falsely innocent and open.

“Just something to think about the next time you’re looking to give Abby flowers.” She grins, then bites her lip in a poor attempt to hide it. “Don’t worry - I won’t be here to get in the way of any sort of thanks she might give you.”

He coughs and glances over at Abby before returning his glance to her, his expression half couched in annoyance. His eyes give away too much embarrassment for her to be too worried, though.

“Those aren’t flowers. They’re medicinal herbs.”

She only _just_ keeps herself from rolling her eyes, though she somehow manages to get the gesture across through words alone.

“Sure, Kane.”

* * *

David Miller knows that it’s absolutely, completely, and without a doubt none of his business to say anything.

But -

He also knows that this is close to the sixth time he’s walked into a room occupied by the chancellor and the head of the guard and felt like he’s interrupted something private and intimate.

Something that looks very much like affection. Adoration. Maybe even love.

That’s _certainly_ not his place to say.

However, he’s known Kane a long time, seen the man Kane thought he needed to be on the Ark and the man he is, now, content and courageous on the ground. He knows that Abby isn’t responsible for the all ways that Kane has shifted his worldview and softened his harsh angles, but it’s also hard to deny the way that Kane now constantly turns to her for support where he might have once forged ahead alone.

So, while he won’t comment on what _exactly_ it is he keeps interrupting, he does feel somewhat obligated to apologize for the fact that he does keep interrupting it.

“I’m sorry about that, sir.”

Kane turns to him, a half-distracted look of puzzlement creasing his features.

“For what?”

He clears his throat and meets Kane’s eyes, tries to keep them as level and free of amusement as possible. He thinks a bit of approval sneaks in but - well - he can’t quite help that.

“Interrupting.”

He gestures awkwardly at the space where Abby was just standing a few moments earlier, shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, and hopes that Kane will save him from actually having to voice aloud any of his assumptions.

Kane’s eyes widen momentarily before he shakes his head and looks away, casting his eyes around for his jacket.

“That’s not -.” Kane clears his throat and turns to face him. “That’s not necessary, David. The Chancellor and I were just wrapping up, anyway.”

He nods at Kane, makes sure to keep his features smooth as he half turns to face the doorway.

“Of course, sir.”

* * *

_Almost_

“Our people need someone here to show them the way out of the dark.” 

The world narrows; she forgets anything else she was going to say - whatever other plans she was going to make or admonitions that were on the tip of her tongue - and can only feel the weight of his words sitting heavily on her chest. 

A creeping sense of dread crawls into her throat. She wants to laugh or curse or scream, maybe; she wants to not be standing here, facing down another man she loves who’s ready to face down his death for the people he loves. 

She knows she should be strong, that there should be iron in her veins and in her spine and in her heart. But there’s no Clarke here to cling to, this time; there is no tangible reason to grab onto that will keep her from crumbling. 

Instead, the iron in her spine melts, becomes lead settling heavily into her bones and seeping into the tendons that hold her together. She feels heavy, laden down with the weight of her sorrow, with the pull of the past reinventing itself. This moment a nightmare she knows she won’t wake from, cold and sweating and shaking; this moment a reality she can’t look away from. 

Her throat is closing up but she - 

She manages to choke the words out anyway. 

“I can’t do this again.” 

The admission tears itself out of her; she sees him take in a shaky breath, sees his eyes cloud with all the words she thinks (hopes) he wants to say but won’t. 

She reaches up to touch him, hesitates because there’s such an air of finality to the gesture that she doesn’t want to acknowledge, can’t believe she has to think about. She finally rests them on either side of his face and just stares at the lines etched onto the surface of his skin, at the slope of his nose, and the slight furrow between his worried brows. Her mouth pulls back tightly against her jaw as she forces herself to swallow back a sob; she runs her hand down the side of his face in an effort to distract herself, relishes the scrape of his beard against her hand and slide of her thumb across his cheekbone. **  
**

He runs his eyes over her, unhurried and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the angles of her face, the slant of her eyes, the curvature of her mouth. The look in his eyes is breathtaking and painful all at once, and she closes her eyes tightly to guard against it. It’s love and yearning and sadness and goodbye and sorry all at once and it’s that last piece of wordless apology that she cannot, will not, accept. She grips the back of his head and tilts his head forward to meet hers, allows herself one, quiet moment to feel his forehead resting on hers, to take in the close sounds of their breath mingling with one another.

Suddenly - like a flash they tell you will happen at the end of your life - she can see all the moments of _almost_ stretched out before her. It’s an endless trail of missteps and missed connections; a thousand shattered pieces of what _could have, should have_ been:

There - a bouquet of yellow flowers in her hand and a sheepish look on Marcus’s face and; there - the slow, almost ethereal light of the moon bathing them in its light as she turns to face him and; there - the feel of his hand in her hair, picking out falling leaves, and the way that he lingers for a fraction and;

Here -

She reaches her hands up, into the hair that she had only a week ago teased him for being just a bit too long, and tangles her fingers into it. He breathes in sharply but doesn’t say anything, keeps himself so still that she can feel the effort of it vibrating off of him. She takes in a deep breath and runs her hands down his neck, feels him suppress a shiver as her hands land on his shoulders. She imagines what his lips might feel like, what his mouth might taste like as her grip tightens slightly as she lifts her chin, drags the tip of her nose across his and -

Feels his hands close gently around her wrists.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is a rough plea she almost can’t bear to hear.

She looks down at the hands on her wrists, gentle yet firm; the look in his eyes is resolve and readiness and repentance. She tells herself she will not memorize the way they’re looking at her - finds she can’t help but do it anyway.

She almost thinks she can hear her heart crack open, can almost feel the lead in her veins slowly filling it with every labored beat as he steps back from her and closes himself off. He breathes out steadily, rips her open with his next stuttered out phrase.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He calls for the guard and steps back again, keeps his eyes on hers as he’s taken away. He nods, once, before he goes; leaves her there with one last _might have been_ lingering across her lips.


End file.
